


double chocolate fudge

by lovelylogans



Series: the sideshire files [2]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Classism, Comfort Food, Complicated Parental Relationships, Crying, Gen, Mentions of homophobia, Runaway Patton, Trans Male Character, baby!logan, mentions of transphobia, not necessary to read that though, this is actually a pretty good prologue, trans!patton, wyliwf!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 13:03:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20358946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelylogans/pseuds/lovelylogans
Summary: virgil hasn’t had a moment of peace all day. and now he has it.so when the bell dings, cheerfully disrupting it, he’s less than pleased.“we’reclosed,”virgil barks out in the meanest tone he could manage, which is pretty damn mean. he’s expecting someone to get huffy, or pleading, or mad, and he’s gearing up to turn and kick whoever it is out of the diner without prejudice.he isnotexpecting to hear that someone burst into hysterical sobs.





	double chocolate fudge

**Author's Note:**

> i actually originally was gonna stick this, as a flashback, in the middle of chapter nine of wyliwf, and then maybe in chapter eleven, but i ended up (grudgingly) cutting it because i couldn’t figure out a way to get it to flow, so, here it is!

there’s a flu that scours throughout he town at a rate of absurd proportions that week, knocking out the vast majority of virgil’s part-timers, so he’s had to pull his third fourteen-hour shift in four days, waiting and busing tables and cooking, so at last when the diner’s closed, virgil’s making himself his first meal of the day. he’s taking a second to just _breathe,_ because it turns out when people get sick, they _really_ don’t want to cook, so he’d had to deal with dinner rush _and_ take-out _and_ call-in orders, the kind of days that would have been hectic even with a full staff, but with one that’s been absolutely decimated, virgil hasn’t had a moment of peace. and now he has it. 

so when the bell dings, cheerfully disrupting it, he’s less than pleased.

“we’re _closed,”_ virgil barks out in the meanest tone he could manage, which is pretty damn mean. he’s expecting someone to get huffy, or pleading, or mad, and he’s gearing up to turn and kick whoever it is out of the diner without prejudice.

he is _not_ expecting to hear that someone burst into hysterical sobs.

he spins, then, to lay eyes on a stranger (a rarity in sideshire) someone wearing the baggiest black sweatshirt he’s ever seen, a stained pair of jeans with genuine rips, not the kind that are designed to be fashionable, and a taped-up pair of converse. the stranger’s bent over a little indigo bundle, shoulders shaking.

“i’m sorry,” the stranger sobs, “i just—i just,” and breaks down again.

“oh, shit,” virgil says frantically, _because that is a kid._ “i—shit, i’m terrible, i’m the worst person, i’m so sorry, i can—i can stay open a little longer, please just stop crying?”

but then the _bundle_ starts squalling, and oh, fuck, that is a _baby,_ virgil just yelled at some kid with a _baby_ who was clearly on the verge of a breakdown, he is the worst person on this planet?

“jesus,” virgil says over all the _crying,_ and sets aside the lasagna he’s been assembling and crosses over to the two crying occupants of the diner. “i—“

the kid snuffles, and bounces the bundle—the _baby—_trying to shush it, but he can’t get out the comforting noises he’s trying to make over his own crying. so virgil is stuck trying to apologize as the kid manages to bounce the baby into calming down, a little, so that there is less screaming but still crying, and the kid stares at him with miserable, red-rimmed eyes.

“i’m really sorry, i can—i can go, i—”

“no, it’s—you’re okay, jesus, i was the jerk, _i’m_ the one who’s really sorry,” virgil says. “here, the baby’ll calm down more while you calm down, if you want to just—sit down? maybe?”

the kid does, settling in the nearest booth and hunching protectively over the bundle of baby, who is somehow _still crying,_ shouldn’t something that small be worn out by now? where is it getting that _energy?_ virgil edges gradually closer and closer, moving slow as to not startle the kid or the baby, feeling like The Worst.

“um,” virgil says, when the baby calms down, eventually, “i can get, like, a spare carseat weird carriage thing if you want to put the baby down? i’m—i’m really sorry.”

the kid sniffs, smearing his sweatshirt paw under his eye. “but you’re closed.”

“i can stay open a bit longer,” virgil says. “i was—i was just in a mood, i’m sorry, i’m not gonna be _closed-_closed for a while.”

“you really don’t have to—“

“no, i want to,” virgil says. 

“you don’t have to be nice to me,” the kid says after a moment of hesitation, like the phrase _nice to me_ is some kind of olympic-level weight that he doesn’t want to set on virgil instead of it just being the decent thing to do, “i could go.”

“you don’t _have_ to,” virgil says, a little frustrated. “stay. _please.”_

“well—“

“i feel like making both a kid and a baby cry kind of necessitates an apology,” virgil says. “seriously. i might get struck down by some karmic lightning if i don’t feed you or something.”

the kid makes a snuffling kind of a laugh, hesitates, and admits quietly, “that’d be, um. that’d be nice. thank you.”

“okay,” virgil says, seizing on it. great! he’s accepted an apology! that probably means he’ll stay! “awesome. i’ll, um. i’ll get you a menu.”

“oh, please don’t go to any trouble,” the kid starts. “you’re already doing a lot, i shouldn’t—”

“it’s fine, i was just making myself dinner,” virgil says. 

“then i’ll have whatever you’re having,” the kid says, clinging to the baby. “really, you’re already being so nice to me—”

“you were literally sobbing five minutes ago, but okay,” virgil says. “you like lasagna?”

the kid smiles, sniffles. “i love lasagna.”

“cool,” he says. “um, does the baby, like. should i get something for the baby?”

“the baby drinks milk and i fed him just a little ago,” the kid says. “but thanks.”

“cool,” virgil says, because thank fucking god, he knows _nothing_ about how to take care of a baby. “you want water, hot cocoa/coffee—?”

“hot cocoa/coffee?”

“virgil’s diner original,” virgil says. “hot cocoa and coffee. before you ask, no, not like a mocha. wait. should i be giving you caffeine?”

“i have a newborn,” the kid says. “it is a great time for caffeine. it is the _perfect_ time for caffeine.”

“okay,” virgil says. “water and a hot cocoa/coffee, coming right up. plus the weird carseat thing.”

he chucks the lasagna in the oven and gets those out really fast, because he isn’t super sure that the kid isn’t gonna bolt as soon as virgil disappears, but when he comes back out the kid is staring down at the baby, cooing, and the baby is making little babbling noises back, like they’re talking in their own secret language. they both look so young. the baby is definitely too young for the kid to be a babysitter, so the baby is probably his, right? virgil feels even worse.

“okay,” virgil says, sitting back down in the opposite booth bench. “two waters, two hot cocoa/coffees, one weird thing that parents usually put their babies into while they eat.”

he sets the thing on the table. the kid surveys it, for a second, looks down at the baby, and then back at the thing, like he’s really warring with the decision to let go of the baby or not. it makes sense—it’s a pretty tiny baby, and virgil is some random stranger who just yelled at him, so.

at last, the kid sighs, and shifts his grip. he carefully lays down the little indigo bundle in the thing, making soft noises at him all the while, like he’s making sure the baby won’t fuss as soon as he’s out of his arms. when the baby’s settled—he fusses a little, but he settles with some help of the kid murmuring comforting nonsense at it—virgil takes a look at the baby.

well. it’s a baby. he’s got those bright blue eyes that most newborns have, and a head full of downy dark hair, and a face that is getting less red and more curious about his surroundings all the while. the kid adjusts the bundle so the baby’s arms are free, which the baby immediately takes advantage of, waving them around as if to alternatively say _this is an outrage!_ or point out new things in his surroundings.

"cute baby,” virgil says, because yes, that is a cute baby. like, a picturesque little gerber baby levels of cute. also that seems like the thing to say about a baby. virgil’s never really had extended contact with babies beyond parents bringing their kids into the diner.

“he is, isn’t he?” the kid says fondly, wraps his hands around the mug and takes a sip, and his eyebrows lift. “oh, this is _really_ good.”

“yeah, i try,” virgil says. 

“like. really, _really_ good.”

“sure.”

“like, i think this is my new favorite drink,” the kid says. “of all time. ever.”

he takes a really long, deep gulp, and sighs in satisfaction.

“well,” virgil says. “good, then.”

“oh god,” the kid says, lowering the mug from his lips. “i’m so sorry, i’ve been so rude—”

“i literally made you cry?”

“—i’m patton,” he says, with a polite smile, stumbling a little over the name, like he was about to say something else instead. “and _this_ is logan.”

“patton and logan,” virgil says. “nice to meet you. i’m virgil.”

he carefully reaches across the table and offers his hand to shake. the kid, hesitates before he takes it, and virgil tries not to sigh in relief. his hands are kinda cold—like he’d hesitated outside before going in, like he’d been psyching himself up asking _what’s the worst that could happen?_ and then _virgil_ happened, and wow, virgil somehow managed to make the kid’s _hand temperature_ be a way to feel _even worse about this situation,_ that was a personal record.

to distract himself from that, and to make the kid laugh, maybe, he turns to the baby, and offers his hand for the baby to shake, fully expecting the baby to maybe blink at him and the kid to _maybe_ crack a pity smile, instead of the smile on his face that looks strangely fixed into place.

what he gets is the baby wrapping his tiny hand around virgil’s pointer finger, and gripping onto it with a surprising amount of strength for such a tiny hand, and virgil goes a little slack-jawed.

(years and years later, this will be the moment virgil pinpoints as when he became an absolute sucker for logan sanders, and the moment that virgil’s mind starts its slow pivot from “twenty-two year old trying desperately to run the family business whose general idea of babies is ‘that’s cute i guess’” to “twenty-two year old trying desperately to run the family business and becoming a little baby-crazy in his quest to protect the sanders boys.”)

“oh,” virgil says.

“he’s got a hold on you, huh?” the kid—patton—asks, amused, and takes another long drink of hot cocoa/coffee.

“yeah,” virgil says, a little stunned, because—because his hand’s so _tiny,_ and yet he’s holding onto _virgil,_ and blinking up at him with those pretty little baby blue eyes of his, like he _trusts him_ or something, which is a stupid thing to think, he’s a baby, but it’s just— 

“he’s really tiny.”

“yeah,” patton says softly.

“is he supposed to be this tiny?” virgil asks, unable to tear his eyes away from the baby, who is altering his grip on virgil’s finger slightly with some kind of fascinated look on his face. he has _eyelashes._ they’re so long, and yet, _so tiny._

“he’s a little small, but not, like, worryingly small,” patton says, propping his chin on his hand and smiling down at him—a real, actual smile, not the polite one. “he was born a bit early, so that’s expected, but he’s six point three pounds, or at least he was the last time we weighed him. he’s due for a growth spurt here, apparently.”

“_six point three pounds,”_ virgil says, hushed. the baby weighs a little more than a bag of _sugar,_ for fuck’s sake, how is his grip on virgil’s finger so strong? not strong enough that virgil can’t break it, but. but _stronger_ than the grip of something that’s _six point three pounds._ “wow.”

“yeah,” the kid agrees, voice soft. 

“i mean—_wow_,” virgil repeats, staring at the baby—who is a _baby,_ sure, but he’s gonna be, like, a _person._ a person who walks and talks and thinks for himself, and right now, that person is _six point three pounds. _“how old is he?”

“he just hit three weeks, two days ago,” patton says.

this baby is _not even a month old_ and yet he’s aware enough to recognize fingers and hold onto them and test his grip and look around at things, and.

“sorry, this is just—i’ve never really been around babies?” virgil says, managing to tear his gaze away from the baby—logan, right. “so this is kind of blowing my mind, right now.”

“yeah, me either,” patton says. “well, before him, anyway.”

“it’s just—he’s gonna be a _person,”_ virgil says. 

“i know,” patton agrees, soft. “i _know._ like, he’s gonna go to school and make friends and have opinions and walk and read and write and talk and all that, someday, but right now, he’s—”

“a baby.”

“yeah,” patton agrees, and leans so that he can smile at the baby—a real smile, a soft, private-looking, proud kind of smile. “yeah. right now, he’s my baby.”

_he’s my baby._ so the kid is _definitely_ the baby’s dad.

"can i ask you how old you are?” virgil says tentatively, and patton stiffens, just a little, but a smile’s back on his face in a second. not the soft one, a polite one, a pleasant-looking one. a practiced one.

“seventeen in january.”

so, he’s_ sixteen._ jesus christ, this kid is _sixteen._ virgil yelled at this poor _sixteen-year-old_ dad with a _baby._

“okay,” virgil says, keeping his voice carefully blank, even though the confirmation that this kid is, you know, _a kid,_ has sprung fifteen million questions in his head, namely _where are your parents?_ and _what are you doing here?_ and _something is definitely going on here, are you okay, is everything okay? _then, because it seems like a fair trade, he says, “i turn twenty-three next month.”

"cool,” patton says awkwardly. he takes a sip of hot cocoa/coffee.

virgil does too, because honestly the baby’s gonna be the one who chooses to let go, not virgil, and having a baby hang onto his finger seems like the least he can do to keep the baby entertained. he takes a much slower, longer sip than usual to buy time for him to scramble for something else to _say,_ and he ends up going with the relatively neutral, “so, uh, where are you from?”

“the city,” patton says, and amends, “well, one of the suburbs north of the city.”

virgil’s not about to ask him specifically which _one,_ but, well. there’s a certain connotation with a lot of the suburbs north of the city. and that connotation is _rich. _which virgil was not expecting when he saw this kid in some of the rattiest clothes he’s seen in a minute that aren’t his, and yeah, there is _definitely_ something going on with patton, is this kid, like, okay?

“it’s about an hour away from here,” patton says, and hesitates, before he says, “where—um, where is _here,_ actually?”

“oh,” virgil says. “you’re in sideshire.”

“sideshire,” he repeats, like he’s testing how it sounds, then he shakes his head. “i’ve never heard of it.”

“it’s a pretty small town, so,” virgil says. “not surprising. we’re really mostly known for pride stuff, so—”

“pride stuff?” patton says, sounding intrigued. the baby makes a noise, too, and brings virgil’s hand closer to his face, examining it.

“right, yeah, you’re new here,” virgil says. “it’s not a super-huge deal, but we were, like, one of the first small towns to start having consistent, yearly pride parades that were, like, approved by the whole town, that kind of thing, so it’s always been pretty lgbtq friendly, but a lot of people move here in search of—well, i guess to live in a small town that doesn’t live up to the stereotype of homophobic small towns, you know?”

“oh,” he says, and his smile widens. “that’s—that’s really cool, actually. really?”

“my family’s been living here forever,” virgil says. “my great-aunts started it, really, they moved here because of that and then my grandpa came here too and founded this place, so.”

“that’s really cool,” patton repeats, sincere, and then he blurts out, “i’m trans.”

“oh, nice,” virgil says. “just wanna double check, he/him pronouns, right?”

patton’s grin widens—like he’s happy that virgil is asking, like it’s some huge thing, when again, _it is the decent thing to do._ “yeah!”

virgil weakly jabs a thumb back toward the little pride flag display he’s got behind the counter, and says, “i’m gay.”

“really?” patton says, eager, and virgil can’t help but laugh a little, because he’s so excited, it’s like seeing a puppy who thinks that the random dog in the mirror is a friend.

“yeah, really,” he says.

“i’ve never met anyone else who’s gay before,” patton says, still eager, still _excited._

“what, seriously?” virgil says, thrown off.

“_yeah_,” patton says. “i mean, i—well, where i’m from, it’s kind of, you know, not really talked about, people like me, and at school, it’s not really—i kinda stick out like a sore thumb at chilton, for a lot of reasons—”

“chilton?” virgil repeats, eyebrows raised, and patton almost looks abashed, and virgil wishes he could take it back.

“i—yeah,” patton says. he takes a long drink of hot cocoa/coffee.

“wow,” virgil says. “that’s—that’s a really good school.”

a really _rich_ school, too. the kind of school that requires kids to be on waiting lists, and that has _uniforms_ and secret societies and debutante balls, with direct lines to ivy league schools.

“yeah,” patton says, looking away from logan, from virgil, and down at the ground, like he’s _ashamed_. “yeah, it is.”

virgil hesitates, and checks the time on the lasagna—not done, not close to done—and then the baby sleepily lets go of virgil’s finger, apparently deciding that the pair of them are too boring to stay awake for.

“can i ask you something?”

patton shrugs. this isn’t exactly an enthusiastic yes.

“you can—i mean, you don’t have to answer if you want, or it can just be a yes or no thing,” virgil says.

he nods at that. virgil leans forward.

“patton,” he says, quiet, “what are you _doing_ here?”

patton breathes in sharply, but doesn’t answer.

“i mean—” virgil hesitates, leans forward more. “you didn’t know about sideshire, you didn’t know where you _were,_ you’re pretty young and you have a _baby_ and you started crying as soon as i snapped at you, which again, i am so so sorry about that, but i’m just—is everything okay?”

as virgil’s been speaking, patton’s face has been screwing up, slowly—his brow furrowing, and his lips pressing together, and his shoulders hunching up, and oh no oh no oh no he’s going to cry again—and he swallows, hard, when virgil’s done.

“i,” he begins, and they both wince when patton’s voice breaks on the syllable. patton swallows, and tries again.

“i think i might have just made the worst mistake of my life,” he chokes out, and sniffs, smearing his hand under his eyes, before he buries his face into his hands.

“oh, i mean, that’s—oh, god, okay, um, is it okay if i put a hand on your shoulder or something?”

he nods without lifting his head from his hands. virgil hesitates, before he puts a hand on patton’s shoulder.

“this is such a dumb question, but, um, are you okay?” virgil says tentatively.

patton lets out a muffled snort into his hands.

“i’m a trans teen dad who ran away with his three-week-old in the dead of the night,” he says. “so now i’m technically a _homeless_ trans teen dad with my three-week old baby, with most of my belongings jammed into my car, and i’ve been planning for this a little, sure, but also _not planned long enough at all,_ so no. not really.”

“oh,” virgil says, and then, “well. shit.”

“yeah,” patton says, and peeks out from his hands. “yeah, that sums it up.”

“i,” virgil begins, and hesitates. “i mean, i—do you have someplace to stay, or to go, or—?”

he’s already shaking his head, and virgil lets out a slow breath, because he’s starting to get stressed out and anxious _for this kid,_ because, like. that’s a _lot_.

“my plan was mostly,” patton says, and begins ticking it off on his fingers. “discreetly pack as much as i could in the couple weeks since i’d made the decision and drain as much cash from my bank account as i could, without people noticing, keep track of my parents’ social calendar for an opportunity for the house to be empty long enough for me to get a head start, make sure i packed up all of logan’s baby things—did you know how much stuff a baby requires, it’s a _lot—_and then when i got out of there, just.” he gestures vaguely toward the horizon, slumping back in the booth. “find _somewhere,_ find a job, figure stuff out.”

virgil says, “you’ve been thinking about this for a while, huh?”

“yeah, i actually—“ patton begins, before he shakes himself. “it’s a long story.”

“we have a while to wait for the lasagna, if you want to tell it,” virgil says gently.

“you don’t have to—”

“i offered,” virgil says stubbornly.

the kid considers this, and then drains his hot cocoa/coffee. “can i get a refill first?”

“you know too much caffeine is bad for you,” virgil says.

“newborn,” patton repeats. 

virgil winces, because, well, he might be asleep _now,_ but those screams earlier had been pretty earsplitting for someone so _tiny_. “be right back.”

he picks up the mugs, goes back into the kitchen, and ends up just bringing out the coffee pot of hot cocoa/coffee—he doesn’t want to interrupt the kid anymore than he has to—and slides back into the booth, filling patton’s up generously and topping off his own drink.

“okay,” virgil says. “so. long story.”

“you really don’t have to, you know,” patton says.

"i asked,” virgil says patiently. “you don’t have to tell me anything you’d be uncomfortable telling me, a stranger who yelled at you, and again, i am so sorry—”

patton waves him off, and pauses, deliberating, before he huffs out a breath.

“so, my parents are emily and richard sanders.”

patton then gives him a look, like this should be Significant, but virgil can only shrug and say, “sure, if you say so.”

patton, strangely enough, brightens. “you don’t know who they are?”

“nope,” he says. “i mean—you didn’t know sideshire was a thing, i have no idea who your parents are. are they a big deal, or something?”

“oh, they’re a big deal,” patton says. “or at least, they are in the city. my dad’s the executive vice president of—well, the exact company doesn’t matter, but he’s in insurance and he oversees the international division, and my mom is—“ patton wrinkles his nose. “well, she’s really involved in charity, and daughters of the american revolution, and a hundred other social things that i can’t remember off the top of my head.”

“okay,” virgil says slowly.

“sorry, it’s just,” patton says, and shakes his head. “basically everyone knows who my parents are. it’s just—i dunno, most of my life has been spent with most adults going _ah, you must be emily’s—_”he cuts himself off with a wave of the hand, “and all the, you know, _i heard from someone who saw you cutting school today,_ when i didn’t even _see_ someone i knew, so it was just—”

“your parents are big brother?”

“not really,” patton says, and tilts his head. “well, that’s what it _felt_ like, sometimes. i dunno.”

he shakes himself, takes a fortifying sip of hot cocoa/coffee, and says, “anyway. so, my parents are, um. let’s go with old-fashioned?”

_oh god, please don’t be a you got disowned and ran away because you’re trans story, please don’t be a you got disowned and ran away because you’re trans story—_

“so i had a lot of expectations, you know, do really well in school, go to an ivy league, marry someone of the proper social standing, and _then_ have a kid,” patton says. “i didn’t really mind the whole house spouse thing my mom kept hinting at as a kid, because i always told people what i wanted to do when i grow up, whenever someone would ask, i’d always say i wanted to be a parent, but—i dunno. my whole life’s been planned for me, and no one really cared if i said no to it, you know?”

“oh,” virgil says, and then, because he can’t really think of what else to say, “ugh.”

“right,” patton says, and grimaces. “i dunno. a lot of my life feels like i’m just walking on eggshells and i’m just waiting for the day where i fuck up again and i’m back to being the family disappointment.”

virgil winces, and the kid looks down into his mug. virgil isn’t sure what to say, so it’s almost good when patton clears his throat and continues.

“anyway, um, so—i just—i kind of... lashed out, i guess, a lot? like, even if i’m trying and _trying_ to be perfect, i’m still a fuck-up, but if i’m _deliberately_ a fuck-up, well—”

“you’re not a fuck-up,” virgil mumbles, and patton smiles humorlessly.

“no offense or anything, but we’ve known each other for less than thirty minutes,” patton says. 

“i—”

“_anyway,”_ patton says. “um, nowhere in this plan did it decree that i could be, you know, a rebellious teenager, or trans, or gay, or trans _and_ gay, which—”

_please don’t be a you got disowned because you’re trans story, _please don’t be a you got disowned because you’re trans story—__

“i mean, they were... it wasn’t the _best_ response they could have had, after me telling them i was trans, but it wasn’t the _worst_ one, either?” patton equivocates.

“like,” virgil prompts gently.

“well, i mean, it took some... persuasion,” patton says, “but they’ve been pretty good about my name and my pronouns and stuff.”

_oh thank god not a disowned story—_

“it’s just,” patton says, and sighs. “i dunno. they’re not, like, super transphobic, but i just—”

he pulls a face, takes a sip, and says, “i mean, i just—i was never gonna stack up, i knew that, i was pretty mixed up about the whole, you know, gender situation, partially because i didn’t _know_ about this kind of thing for a long time and partially because, well, like i said, my parents are pretty old fashioned, so i was worried about how they might react when i, like, realized, and accepted it, and—so i did some stupid things.”

virgil thinks about protesting that, the _stupid_ part, at least, but he has a feeling that patton would double-down on talking down about himself, which made virgil feel kind of upset, really, because this _sixteen-year-old kid_ with a _baby_ is clearly dealing with more than enough stuff right now in addition to dealing with any self-hate talk, so he stays quiet. he takes a sip of hot cocoa/coffee. he listens.

he listens as patton talks the snooty people that’ve been surrounding his whole life. he listens as patton talks about the expectations, the way people would look down their noses if he strayed from those expectations, the murmurs of disapproval that would follow. he listens as patton talks about the bullies at school who tried being his friend at first because he was a sanders and who turned on him the instant he decided to live his life as himself. he listens as patton talks about the drinking, and the boyfriends, and the stunts he’d pull, and the lectures that would escalate to screaming after each time. he listens as patton goes almost hoarse as he’s talking, like he hasn’t been able to talk to people for as long as he’s been talking to virgil, like he’s been locked up in some kind of tower or something. he listens as patton talks about going through it _alone,_ like he’s got _no one_ in his corner, no one who’s got his best interests as he sees them at heart, no one who wants to _listen_ and be there and be a shoulder to cry on, and no _wonder_ he ran away.

he listens as patton holds his breath after each infraction he’d detail that seemed like a big deal to him, and the whooshing breath of relief that he’d let out when virgil would just nod to signal he was still listening, and that he could keep going.

his _heart hurts_ for this poor kid. this poor lonely kid.

“so, that brings us to about nine months, give or take, before now, which—”

the baby starts crying.

“—that’s about it, yeah,” patton says, and leans to pick him up, pitching his voice so it’s soft and comforting. “hey there, baby, you don’t gotta cry, i’ve gotcha, i’ve gotcha—”

he stands up, baby cradled in his arms, and asks, “where’s your restroom?”

“back in that corner, just down the hall,” virgil says. “i’m gonna check on the lasagna.”

he nods, and heads back into the bathroom, and virgil departs for the kitchen. he carefully puts on his oven mitts, takes it out, sets it down, and—

and the bell jingles.

_no, no, no, no—_

he rushes out of the kitchen, and sees patton blinking at him, cradling the baby to his chest with one hand, carrying a tote bag with the other.

“hey,” virgil says, feeling abruptly stupid. “um. sorry. i thought—”

“i left the diaper bag in the car,” patton says. “so. i’ll be right back, again.”

“right,” virgil says. “um, good. i’ll just—dish up the lasagna.”

“right,” patton repeats. “um,” and then ducks back into the hall, heading for he bathroom.

virgil, slowly, lets out a breath and resists the urge to slam his head against the cash register. _what the fuck was that,_ he scolds himself even as he goes back into the kitchen. _what the **fuck** was that, the kid would totally be allowed to leave if he wanted to, that isn’t your call to make, oh my god, can you possibly look worse, you already fuckin’ yelled at him, jesus—_

“—all right, lo, is that all you needed? you feeling okay? no more crying, for now?”

no response, but he hears patton giggle.

“aw, well, you’re _welcome,_ sweetheart! i love you!”

the smacking noise of a kiss, a babyish noise that’s probably some kind of response, in baby-speak, and patton giggling again.

“yeah, who do i love most ever of all time? it’s you! it’s you!”

more baby noises. virgil smiles, unable to help himself, as he dishes up generous portions of lasagna.

“you’re the bestest little baby in the whole wide world, aren’t you?”

virgil hesitates, before he gathers up the plates and two glasses of water on a tray before hoisting it and emerging carefully from the kitchen. he sees patton, smiling down at the baby, walking around the diner and bouncing logan carefully. he’s looking down at his son with such a fond, gentle look on his face, not paying attention to the world around him, like logan’s the only thing that matters.

virgil doesn’t wanna break the spell, but when patton turns a little to start walking again, he sees virgil and starts. “oh!”

“dinner’s ready,” virgil says lamely, and walks back to their booth, setting down the dishes and the water before dropping the tray back behind the counter. 

he settles back behind the booth, and passes patton a fork.

“so,” he prompts gently. “this year?”

“right,” patton says, and digs in, talking in between bites of lasagna.. “um, so—so i’ve got this friend, christopher?”

_oh, thank god, this kid has a friend._

“that’s good,” virgil says encouragingly. “how long have you two known each other?”

“since i was _born,_ basically,” patton says with a grin. “apparently, he threw up on me the first time we met.”

“ew, gross,” virgil says.

“i know, right?” patton says. “but whenever i get sick, he always just says _it’s okay, you owed me one_. he’s—he’s my best friend.”

“good,” virgil says. a _best_ friend, that’s even better than _a_ friend.

“uh, about that,” patton says, and virgil frowns.

“not good?”

“um,” patton says, takes a bite of lasagna, eats it, swallows, and then clears his throat. “so you know how it takes two to tango?”

he tilts his head at patton, confused. 

“i don’t...?

patton very pointedly nods toward logan.

“_oh,”_ virgil says. “i—oh. okay. got it. right.”

“yeah,” patton says. “so, um. to make a super long story short—and i’m so sorry for taking up so much of your time—“

“you don’t have to apologize,” virgil says.

“well, i’m apologizing,” patton says, and takes another bite. “anyway, i just—i, you know, chris and i did... _that,_ and then he happened, and i love him, of course i do, more than anything in the world, but hoo boy, if a trans teen was a topic of gossip, a _pregnant_ trans teen was—”

“yeah,” virgil says, and winces. 

“right,” patton says miserably. “so it just—i dunno, so much of the time it felt like logan and me against the world, and pre-pregnancy, chris was telling me all about how we’d skip a year, go to europe, backpack it, train it, sleep on benches, see the world, and—and we’d be out of here the _second_ the diploma was in our hands.”

“that sounds nice,” virgil offers softly.

patton smiles, but it looks more like a grimace. “yeah,” he says. “yeah, it does—did, i guess. he said i should leave a note on the dining room table that says _dear emily and richard, i don’t belong here, i’m going somewhere else, i’ll call you when i get there, love, patton,_ and we’d just... jet. so. the idea started then, i guess, right before my birthday, and then in feburary or march, i, well.”

he places a hand on the carrier. “realized this guy was comin’ along.”

“right,” virgil says. 

“so our parents were—you know, trying to plan our lives,” patton says, and looks—strangely—almost _ill_ for a moment, before he brushes it off. “and chris and i were sitting on the stairs, eavesdropping, and just—no one asking us what we thought, what they were trying to decide what to do with _our_ lives, and chris kept saying that they’re trying to figure out what to do with our lives, and that we’d need their help, and i just kept saying _no, no, we can take care of ourselves,_ and he went _how_ and i said _we’ll figure it out,_ and he said _it’s okay, it sounds okay, giving up europe and getting a job with your dad and living here, it sounds okay,_ and he couldn’t just—he can’t just give up _everything_ for me, i could never, ever expect him to do that, if my parents suck his are the _worst_ and he’s been wanting to get as far away from them as possible for as long as i can remember, so—”

“so you started planning on running away.”

“so i started planning on running away,” patton agrees quietly, and takes another bite. “and not just—i mean, not _just_ because of christopher, but i just—i couldn’t stay there anymore, you know? even pre-pregnancy, i knew i couldn’t stack up, and, well, _during_ pregnancy—”

he makes a face, and says, “i mean, i—i _love_ logan, i love him, i never imagined i could love anyone so much, but just—well, being a boy and being pregnant, it—”

he breaks off.

“you don’t have to finish that,” virgil says quietly. 

patton nods, just a little dip of his head, and eats a couple more bites, before he says, “so i was pregnant, and i gave birth, which really, _really_ sucked, by the way, i was in labor for _fourteen hours—”_

virgil flinches.

“—i’m so holding that over logan’s head for the rest of his life, but i just—post-birth, i realized that if i stayed there, my parents would try to parent logan the way _they_ parented _me,_ and i couldn’t—i mean, i couldn’t let that happen. i couldn’t let that happen, right?” he asks desperately.

“course not,” virgil says.

“and i mean, i know they love me,” patton says, just enough uncertainty lingering in his voice that it breaks virgil’s heart all over again, “i know they do, but i can’t—logan can’t be raised the way i was, you know? he could be _anything_ he wants, anything in the world, and i’d be behind him, i’d be rooting for him, but with _my_ parents, they’re so rigid, if he wanted to be a, oh, i don’t know—”

“a diner owner,” virgil offers.

“_right,_ a diner owner, they’d think he was on the same level of a carjacker, or something—um, no offense,” patton says quickly.

“none taken.”

“i mean, as long as—as long as he’s _happy,_ that’s my whole mindset, you know? as long as he’s going to be happy, i’m going to be happy, but with my parents, it’s more—they have a very _specific_ way i should be happy.”

“for what it’s worth, i think you’re right,” virgil says. patton smiles thinly.

“thanks, i guess.”

a pause. they both eat. patton’s practically done—it’s like he hasn’t eaten all day, and then rolled up to a diner that he’d had to psych himself up about going into, and _god,_ virgil yelled at this _poor kid, _who’s practically inhaling his food_._

“i mean, i had my life _planned._ like, my life plans came over on the _mayflower,_ they’re so old. i was supposed to graduate from high school, go to yale or something, marry some blueblood, and instead, i—i got pregnant, and i’m not finishing high school, and i’m not marrying christopher, and i—”

the kid is choking up. before virgil can say anything along the lines of _please don’t cry, it’s okay, it’ll be okay,_ the kid’s continuing.

“i humiliated them, the two proudest people in the world and i’m _humiliating_ them, i’m spoiling their plans, i—i’m taking their world of opportunity and privilege and comfort and i’m throwing it in their faces, i’m taking all of that away from logan, i’m breaking their hearts and they’re never, ever going to forgive me—”

the kid breaks down again, a hand coming up to cover his eyes, and virgil’s up before he can even think, sliding out of the booth and kneeling in front of patton’s.

“oh, hey, it’s—can i come up there, can i hug you?” 

“you don’t have to,” he sobs.

“i’m _asking, _can i come up there and hug you?” virgil says, and the kid nods, still not removing his hand, so virgil can’t see his face.

virgil cautiously rises up onto the booth, and, slowly, wraps an arm around his shoulder, and drops his hand so he can rub up and down patton’s arm, the way his mom used to do for him.

“i don’t know what i’m doing,” patton says, voice trembling dangerously. “i just—i thought i could get it under control, but i can’t, i _can’t,_ and my life is falling apart, i’ve been thinking about this for months and months and months and it’s here and i’m _failing,_ i can’t handle it, i just—i can’t even walk into a _diner _without having a breakdown—”

“that’s not your fault—”

“—and i thought i would have help, but i’m so _stupid, _running away means _running away,_ which means my parents don’t know where we are, and _christopher_ doesn’t know where we are, and we’re alone and i love being a dad, i do, but i don’t think i can be a dad all on my own, and i don’t know if i’ll be able to figure out having a job _and_ taking care of my kid, but i need to have one in order to do the other, and it’s going to be so much, and i’m such an _idiot _for_ not thinking about that,_ i don’t have a plan, i don’t know where i’m going, and god, my mom was _right,_ just because i couldn’t handle sitting in their house listening to her call me an idiot and i can’t even argue with them, because i _am,_ and i’m gonna run out of money and i’m gonna be homeless and i’m gonna have to give up logan or go crawling back to my parents and who _knows_ if they’re ever gonna forgive me, i don’t know if they’re never gonna talk to me again or if they’re gonna send the police after me to drag us both back and to have me locked up in my room for as long as they can manage, and even if they don’t i’m still stuck unemployed and homeless and with a _baby_ that i barely know how to handle and i don’t even know which option is worse and i’m going to _fail,_ i’m going to fail—”

he buries his face into virgil’s chest, and virgil freezes, just for a moment, before he hesitantly puts a hand on patton’s head, and tries to stroke his hair.

“you aren’t going to fail,” virgil says firmly, and strokes a hand through his hair.

“i don’t know what to do,” he sobs out, heartbroken and _scared,_ and virgil tightens his hold on him, runs his hand through his hair again, and patton hiccups.

“i don’t know what to do,” he chokes, and virgil runs his hand up and down his arm, cradles his head, tries to just _hug him._

“i don’t know what to do—” he says in the smallest voice, voice barely above a whisper. 

“it’s okay,” virgil says, voice gruff. “it’s gonna be okay, okay? you and logan are both gonna be just fine.”

he keeps going—saying that kind of thing, _you two will be okay,_ or_ it’s okay to be sad, _or _i’m sorry this is happening_—and awkwardly cupping patton’s head, running his fingers through his hair.

his shoulders shake, and virgil stays where he is, setting his chin on patton’s head. logan, mercifully, doesn’t pitch a fit because his dad is upset, the way virgil’s seen some babies do—he’s staring, but that’s about it.

_sorry your grandparents suck,_ he mouths at the baby. _thanks for being chill._

logan, predictably, just blinks at him.

eventually, patton stills. virgil pulls back, bit by bit, and patton’s turned very red, staring down at the table.

“can i have the bright side?” falls out of his mouth before he can help it, and he cringes even as patton goes redder without removing his eyes from the table.

“what?”

“i—forget it, you don’t—”

“no, i mean, what’s that—what’s that mean?”

virgil rubs the back of his neck, and mumbles, “it’s just—i have anxiety.”

“oh,” patton says. “um, sorry.”

“it’s not—that wasn’t—i wasn’t trying to get you to feel sorry for me or any—um, anyway, so, i’d, you know. catastrophize a lot, or i’d rant about my day, or say everything that could go wrong, and after i’d get really upset or something my mom would just say _can show me the bright side here, stormy steve?_ or something like that and i’d have to think about something good that could come of it. even if i was upset, well. i’d think of one good thing and that—that helped. so.” 

virgil clears his throat, and now they’re _both_ staring at the table. “stupid, i know,” he mumbles. “forget it. um, do you like chocolate?”

“yeah,” patton says.

“cool,” virgil says, and then he lies. just a little. “if you don’t mind, i’m, um, we’re trying out this new cake? double chocolate fudge. i could use a taste tester before i decide to start serving it regularly.”

okay, _fine,_ he’d tried out the new cake five months ago, when he took over the diner, but it’s still new enough that it’s not on the menu yet, so there.

“oh,” patton says. 

“you cry in my diner, you get food,” virgil says. “if you’ll have it, that is.”

“i—sure. i’ll split some cake with you. thank you.”

“cool,” virgil says, and nudges the glass of water closer to patton. “crying dehydrates you, so, um. drink up.”

patton, who _still_ hasn’t looked up from the table, wraps up the cup in both his hands. 

virgil goes to the back, and preps the biggest slice of cake he can pass off as a typical serving, and grabs two more forks before heading back out to the table, where patton’s gently squishing his son’s squishy baby cheeks and booping his tiny, tiny nose.

“he’s really cute,” virgil says, setting down the cake. “is it as satisfying to squish him as it looks?”

“it is,” patton says, and, smiling, looks up, even as his eyes are red-rimmed and he hasn’t quite managed to smear off all the tear tracks on his cheeks. “do you wanna hold him?”

“i—_oh,”_ virgil says. “oh, are you—are you sure?”

“yeah, i mean—” patton says. “if you wanna?”

“i mean, i just—i’ve just never held a baby before?” virgil says. “so you’ll have to coach me through it.”

“oh! sure thing,” patton says, and demonstrates the arm hold. “like this?”

virgil copies him exactly, freezing in place, as patton coos gently to his son, leaning over him and gathering him in his arms.

“okay,” patton says, turning. “oh—great, yeah, just like that! just be sure to support his head, okay?”

“right,” virgil says. “weak neck.”

“yeah, that’s it,” patton says, smiling, and carefully, slowly, transfers logan into virgil’s arms.

virgil immediately cups his head with his hand—god, what if he _didn’t_ and something happened to logan’s tiny baby brain?—and patton settles all six point three pounds of him into virgil’s arms, stepping back, which virgil barely notes out of the corner of his eyes, because—

because he’s holding a _baby._

(even if logan grabbing his finger wasn’t The Moment, this certainly would be.)

he’s so tiny, and somehow, so _warm,_ so utterly, completely captivating—six point three pounds did not equate small in terms of attention, in terms of focus that virgil was giving him. he blinks up at virgil with clear blue eyes, and virgil can’t help but let his lip twitch up into half a smile.

“hey there,” virgil says to him, his voice taking on a distinctly cooing tone that would probably alarm him when he _wasn’t_ holding a baby anymore. “hi there, kid, i’m virgil.”

the baby says nothing, unsurprisingly. virgil kind of wants to press his nose into the baby’s cheek, or something, and then is slightly alarmed by that impulse. what is it with the immediate urge to just... cuddle and poke at and murmur at it fondly? some kind of evolutionary instinct, probably.

virgil had never considered himself a baby person before. wow. is he a baby person? is that what this is? or is he just very particularly a logan-baby kind of person? virgil doesn’t know any other babies, so he’s just gonna have to assume baby person. which is—new.

so virgil’s just—probably looking like an absolute freak, beaming down at this random baby he has no attachment to, and he _feels_ like it, a little, because it’s just—well, logan’s so _little_ and virgil just wants to be sure that he keeps that curious look on his face, that he’ll grow up and smile and be happy, and wow, yeah, this baby has got him wrapped around his little finger. 

“cute,” patton murmurs, and virgil just about startles.

“oh! um,” virgil says, and nods his chin toward logan. “should i...?”

“it kind of seems like you want to keep holding him,” patton says, amused.

“i kinda do, a bit,” virgil admits. "is this, like. am i a baby person?”

“you don’t know?” patton asks.

“well, like i said, i’ve never really been _around_ babies, you know?” virgil says, as logan’s eyes shut lazily, and oh, _wow,_ is he seriously comfortable enough where he is that he’s _falling asleep on virgil?_

“what, ever?” patton says.

“i’m the youngest of five, plus i’m the youngest of all my cousins,” virgil says. “youngest child of youngest children, you know. most babies i’ve seen are customer’s kids, so this is, like. my first extended contact with one.”

“only child,” patton says. “but, well. i always liked kids, even when i _was_ a kid.”

_you’re still a kid,_ virgil thinks but doesn’t say.

“i used to babysit a lot, and i volunteered for daycare, and stuff, so,” patton says. “kinda always knew i was a baby person.”

“good,” virgil says, looking back at logan. “that’s good.”

“do you wanna know the bright side?”

virgil looks up from logan, distracted, not getting it, until he very suddenly remembers.

“oh!” virgil says, and shifts his stance while making _super sure_ he doesn’t shift his grip on the baby. “yeah, of course, tell me. what’s your bright side?”

patton grins at him, weary. “at least i never have to do today again.”

virgil laughs, and concedes the point with a nod. “that’s pretty smart, you know?”

“eh—” patton begins, clearly about to wave it off.

“no, seriously,” virgil says, and smiles at him. “you never have to do today ever, ever again. congratulations.”

patton laughs—it doesn’t sound particularly happy, it sounds kinda snotty, actually—but it’s _genuine,_ and so virgil smiles a little wider when he hears that, and looks down again at the baby in his arms. 

“he’s really cute,” virgil says. “congrats on the good genes.”

patton laughs again. “well, thank you.”

he steps closer, and peeks at logan. “he must be really tired,” he murmurs.

“yeah?” virgil says.

“well, it’s just—logan’s usually crying, this time of night, but i threw his schedule all kinds of out of whack,” patton says, and bites his lip.

“hey, that happens,” virgil says. “should i lay him down, though?”

“yeah, probably,” patton says, and carefully worms his hands under logan so that he can take him back. virgil steps close, as to ease his way, and patton lifts him, lies him down in the carrier.

virgil tries not to feel disappointed, and instead takes his seat in the booth again, handing across the fork for patton.

“try the cake,” he says. 

patton digs in, and lifts the fork to his mouth, and then his eyes close and his hand comes up to his mouth.

“_oh,”_ he says dreamily. “oh. that’s _really_ good.”

“well, good,” virgil says, digging in himself. it really _is,_ if virgil says so himself—fudgy and rich and moist, chocolatey and decadent and just _good._ perfect thing to eat when you needed some kind of sweet comfort food.

they eat the whole cake in fairly companionable silence, and virgil pushes patton to take the last bite, and he does, before leaning back against the booth with a satisfied sigh.

“that was some _really_ good cake,” he says. “definitely put it on the menu.”

virgil grins. “glad to hear it goes over well.”

“did you come up with the recipe yourself?” patton asks.

“yeah,” virgil says. “well—most of the diner ones are either family recipes handed down or mine, yeah.”

“_wow,”_ patton says. “i mean—i burn _toast.”_

“it gets better with practice,” virgil says reassuringly. 

patton grimaces, just a little. “one more thing to worry about.”

“it doesn’t have to be,” virgil blurts out.

“what?” patton says.

“you could—“ virgil hesitates, gestures with his fork. “i mean, you said that you didn’t have anywhere in particular to go, right?”

“right,” patton says cautiously.

“you could stay here,” virgil says. “i mean—not _here_-here, necessarily, i don’t think i have room for two people plus a baby upstairs, but—sideshire. you could stay here, in sideshire.”

“i—huh,” patton says thoughtfully.

“i mean,” virgil says. “i know maria—she’s a family friend, she knew my aunts—i know for a _fact_ she’s always hiring, and that doesn’t require much in terms of work experience. there’s pretty good childcare in sideshire, not that i know as much about it as you’d probably want to.”

patton doesn’t say anything.

“you could just—sleep on it?” virgil says. “maria—she runs the inn, you’d probably be doing housekeeping or waiting tables or working in the kitchen, i know that if you went in there and told her virgil sent you that she’d have a place for you—pretty cheap, if not free.”

“i couldn’t—”

“one night,” virgil says. “_one_ night, you sleep on it, and you can decide in the morning. stay or go.”

patton pauses, licks his lips, and nods. “sleep on it,” he repeats slowly.

“yeah,” virgil says. “i mean—you’ve had a _big_ night, patton, to say the least, and you’re gonna have a big day tomorrow, too. you have a lot ahead of you. i’d probably be insisting to anyone else that they stop and take a break, too.”

patton concedes the point, and nods.

“it’s just—” virgil hesitates, before he shrugs. “it just seems like—you need a person, right now. a friend. or at least a familiar face that isn’t your infant son.”

patton tries for a smile, and it wobbles. it’s almost better than the fake, practiced one.

“yeah,” he says, quiet. 

“okay,” virgil says. “then if you need it, i can be your person.”

patton stares at him, before he nods. “okay.”

“yeah?” virgil says.

“yeah,” patton says. “okay. i’ll listen to you, as you are now my person. i’ll sleep on it.”

“okay!” virgil says. “good.”

so virgil sketches out direction to the inn on a napkin, and gives patton a half-caf hot cocoa/coffee for the less-than-five-minute drive, and holds logan as patton packs away the coffee and the diaper bag in his car _stuffed_ full of all his and logan’s belongings, and patton takes logan to start fastening him into the car seat.

“get some rest,” virgil says. “you and logan both.”

“it’s funny that you think i can get logan to rest when i want him to rest,” patton says wryly, double-checking that logan’s all fastened in. 

virgil leans in to see logan’s face, and tells him directly, “get some rest.”

logan makes a sleepy noise.

“that was a yes,” virgil tells patton, and patton snorts, before he reaches over and takes out his wallet.

virgil’s already shaking his head, and puts his hand down on patton’s hand.

“no,” he says.

“i can pay for what i ate,” patton says.

“i was closed,” virgil says. “this was just dinner between two friends. okay?”

patton hesitates, before he lowers the wallet.

“okay,” patton says. 

“okay,” virgil says. 

“i... no matter what i decide, virgil,” patton says. “_thank you.”_

virgil ducks his head. “i just—”

“you were really nice to me when you didn’t need to be,” patton says. “thank you.”

virgil hesitates, before he opens his arms. “see you maybe?”

patton leans in, and wraps his arms around virgil’s waist. he’s short—it probably shouldn’t surprise virgil, he’s sixteen, he’s probably due for a growth spurt—but virgil wraps his arms tight around patton’s shoulders, trying to transmit some kind of _be okay be okay be okay_ energy that’ll carry him through, no matter if he decides to leave sideshire or not, and just make sure that their lives turn out _better._

“thanks,” patton repeats as a whisper into virgil’s shoulder, and virgil squeezes him a little tighter. they separate.

“not a problem,” virgil says roughly, and steps back as patton hops into the driver’s seat and starts the car but doesn’t yet close the door against the wintry chill.

“drive safe, yeah?”

“yeah,” patton confirms. “i just—virgil?”

“yeah?” he asks, sticking his hands into his hoodie pockets.

patton smiles at him, and says, “i’m not sure how much thinking i’ll do.”

virgil smiles back at him, and patton lets out a sigh—he almost sounds happy. 

“i actually have a pretty good feeling about this place.”

with a smile that’s bright and beaming and _real,_ he shuts the car door with a noisy thud.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr is [lovelylogans,](https://lovelylogans.tumblr.com/) and i accept prompts for this series!


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